The Wretched of the Earth
by AKs-on-show
Summary: The first time Sabian Thénardier saw Marius Pontmercy, he fell immediately, irrevocably, deeply in love. AU and slash-y with a gender-flipped Éponine and a doomed revolution in the offing.
1. I - Marius Pontmercy

**I. Marius Pontmercy**

* * *

The first time Sabian Thénardier saw Marius Pontmercy, the latter had just taken up residence in the apartment above the cramped quarters the former shared with his bankrupt and destitute family. The first time Sabian Thénardier saw Marius Pontmercy, he saw the man's brass buttons and expensive boots and thought about the best way to con the fish-out-of-water rich boy out of a few francs. The first time Sabian Thénardier saw Marius Pontmercy, he fell immediately, irrevocably, deeply in love.

Sabian wasn't sure, even upon later reflection, what is was about that first sighting that had made him fall in love so. Perhaps it was the proud jut of Marius Pontmercy's chin, the burning intensity in his blue eyes. It might have been his lean, strong body or fashionable clothes. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself, the carefree gait only the rich could muster and only the young could sustain. For Sabian, the promise of money and a youth not yet wasted was intoxicating; Marius Pontmercy, simply, was the most beautiful person Sabian Thénardier had ever seen.

In contrast to the healthy, robust Marius, Sabian was skinny to the point of emaciated, his skin pale and his thick brown hair curled and tangled. A light dusting of hair on his upper lip signalled that he was almost a man, and though he was slight he was wiry and stronger than he looked. It was his voice, however, that kept him from talking to the beautiful student that lived above him. Marius had a booming, powerful voice that attracted and held the attention of everyone that listened to it: Sabian, on the other hand, was cursed with a husky, hoarse voice that was easily dismissed and quickly forgotten.

Not that he could have communicated the way Marius could anyway, lacking in anything like a formal education. His vocabulary consisted of Parisian street argot, which served him well in his parents' line of work; line of work, that is, if one can call petty thievery and running cons as a line or work.

Sabian, though not especially ashamed of his parents or his circumstance, did his best to hide this from Marius. It was not as if Marius would have noticed, of course, but Sabian, with what little ego he had, liked to pretend that he _did_ notice, and that his notice was sufficient to provoke his interest in the family's affairs; Marius Pontmercy never seemed to be in one place for very long, though, dashing from one secret society to another, with books under his arm and a Voltaire quote on his lips.

On darker, lonelier nights, when Sabian was at home and his parents were still out fleecing some unsuspecting soul or another, he pressed his ear to the low ceiling of their apartment and listened to Marius practice orations with that beautiful voice of his. Once, back in the inn his family had owned when he was a little boy, Sabian had tasted chocolate; to Sabian, Marius' voice sounded the way that chocolate tasted, and he fell more in love with him with each syllable.

Still, Sabian never spoke to Marius until circumstances forced him to.

His parents' latest money-making scheme involved writing letters to various well-to-do people using different names and begging them for alms. They'd concoct a sad story, sign a made-up name and send it off, hoping to catch a few francs for their trouble.

Sabian and his sister, young Azelma, were keeping watch for his parents as they slipped the letters under the doors of houses in a well-to-do part of Paris one cool spring day when Azelma gave a shout.

Two _gendarmes_, dressed in brilliant blue finery that put the Thénardier's grimy and threadbare clothing to shame, turned into the leafy street. Sabian, carrying a package of letters addressed to a host of wealthy Parisians, some titled and some self-made, started and instantly turned to run.

His parents, he knew, would have abandoned him in an instant and he had no problem with leaving them behind. He flew down the street, leaving one of his shoes behind. He kicked the other off and ran barefeet on the cobblestones. The gendarmes saw him: one blew his whistle, the other gave chase. He glanced over his shoulder as he turned a corner just in time to see his parents and sister slip into an alleyway.

The _gendarme_, a stronger, taller man than Sabian, was beginning to catch up, his long strides carrying him closer with each step.

These streets were devoid of most of the activity of the city, a sheltered enclave of the rich and privileged from the hustle and bustle of Parisian life, so there wasn't much chance for Sabian to disappear into a crowd or take shelter in a busy shop. All he could do was run, and run he did.

The _gendarme_ blew his whistle again and again, shouting for Sabian to stop. The boy may not have been educated, but he certainly wasn't that stupid. He barrelled through the streets until, quite incongruously, he discovered a large and rapidly swelling crowd milling outside a splendid city palace.

A carriage had pulled up in front of the house and a selection of young men had colonised it. They stood on its roof, on the driver's seat. One was carrying a red flag, another the _tricolore_ and there, standing amidst them, was Marius Pontmercy. Sabian, despite the gendarme following him, immediately came to a halt. For a second, it felt as though his breath had been expelled from him by some mighty force.

Marius, tall, strong, blue-eyed Marius, was speaking animatedly to the crowd. Sabian couldn't make out the words, but he heard that voice as clearly as bells on a Sunday morning. For a moment, it was all he could hear. Then the gendarme's whistle sounded again and Sabian ran, barefoot, into the crowd. With deft fingers, he stole a red ribbon from the chest of a middle-aged man and pinned it to his own shirt. He got as close to the carriage as he could, close enough to see Marius in all of his beauty and close enough to hear his words.

"General Lamarque is the only man who cares a wit for the common people of France!" he called, pumping his fist in the air. The crowd cheered its agreement. "The one man we can count on to speak our truths to the king, away in his castle in the clouds! The one man we could rely on and believe in! But, my friends, as the light of his life dims, the light in our future continues to burn bright!"

Sabian glanced over his shoulder and noticed that the gendarme had disappeared. He wondered where the man had gone.

"We are not alone! Every day, our cause is being heard, throughout the city and throughout the country. We may have few allies in the upper echelons, but I say to you that we do not need them! That we, brave men and women of France, have freedom in our blood, know freedom in our souls, that I say to you, I promise you, _I swear to you_, that we will know freedom again!"

The cheers now were loud, overwhelming, and for a second Sabian was caught up in the high emotion. Not simply because Marius was the one speaking, but because of the words being spoken.

"In place of a corrupt and venal king, we shall have a republic!" he trumpeted, and the cheers rose ever higher as he went on. "A republic answerable only to us, the people of France, and the rule of law! No one shall be above the law, no one man shall direct its course! We shall be a civilisation of justice, a beacon to guide the world away from the shoals of tyranny and cruelty!"

Sabian remembered hearing Marius practice this speech, but even that exclusive performance could not match up to this: the pulsing, roaring crowd, Marius, his white cheeks flushed red with the excitement, clearly riding the waves of joy they emanated. A man wielding the tricolore, who wore a splendid red jacket and had a mane of golden curls, grinned at Marius and Sabian felt a pang of jealousy; envy at that man's closeness to Marius, at their obvious camaraderie and at the strength of his voice as he shouted his assent.

Before Marius could go on, however, a shrill chorus of whistles sounded from the other end of the street. Sabian whipped about and saw a line of _gendarmes_ on horseback approach rapidly. He swallowed, for a moment convinced that they were after him. His hasty disguise, the ribbon pinned to his chest, wouldn't hide his barefeet and ragged clothes. Then, he realised, that the gendarmes didn't want anything to do with him. They were here to disperse the crowd, perhaps to frighten the rally's attendees. Certainly, they would arrest Marius and his friends if they could.

Marius had leapt from the carriage and passed so close to Sabian that the boy was convinced he had felt the brush of the revolutionary's jacket on the bare skin of his arm.

He began handing out pamphlets to the attendees, but they were thinning too quickly.

"Come on, Marius!" the man in the red jacket yelled, rushing to his friend's side. "We can't be the only ones left when the _gendarmes_ arrive!"

"A minute, Enjolras," Marius said, waving him away. He turned to a woman, middle-aged, plump and with the hardened air of a factory labourer. "Please, come here again on Wednesday. The rally will be much larger, you'll see!"

"Marius!" Enjolras urged. "Quickly!"

Marius finally turned to Enjolras, and as he did his eyes wept right over where Sabian was standing. Once again, the boy felt like he had been struck. His breath left him and his senses followed. His fingers even seemed to grow weak and he dropped the bundle of letters to the cobblestones. Marius began to walk as though towards him; something awakened inside of him, and Sabian turned and began to run as fast as he possibly could away from the site of the rally, away from Marius and away from the pain that gripped his chest as he realised that the man hadn't even seen him stand there.

He didn't see Marius pluck the bundle of letters from the street, look at it briefly and tuck it under his arm as he joined his friends in their flight.


	2. II - Sabian Thénardier

**II. Sabian Thénardier**

* * *

"You lost the letters?" M. Thénardier said, whirling to face his son.

Bravely, Sabian held his ground, squaring his narrow shoulders and facing his father. Once upon a time, M. Thénardier had been an imposing man, a man of means and influence and money. Now, he was as destitute as any other Parisian street urchin. Still, Sabian had reason to be scared of him: he was still a large man, with a wicked temper and a quick hand.

"You lost the letters?" Mme. Thénardier piped up, Sabian's mother staring at him like something she'd just stepped in in the street.

"I was caught off guard," Sabian said, clearing his throat and trying to keep. "I ran into a rally, the gendarmes showed up... I just got jostled and I dropped the letters, all right?"

M. Thénardier moved before Sabian knew what was happening. The side of the large man's hand connected with the boy's cheek and sent him stumbling a step backwards. Azelma, sitting in the far corner of the small room, gasped and looked on, horrified, even though the sight itself wasn't that unusual.

Sabian blinked and rubbed his cheek, too shocked to be in pain. He knew it would bruise and he wondered, absurdly, what Marius would think of the dark mark that would soon cover the boy's hollow cheek.

"Get those letters back," Mme. Thénardier, completely uncaring about her son's pain and her husband's cruelty, said with a glare. "Get those letters back, and don't think you'll get a new pair of shoes until you do."

Sabian looked down as bare feet, the soles of which were already black with dirt. "I can't get them back," he said, still looking at his toes.

M. Thénardier's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

The boy swallowed, steeling himself for the inevitable onslaught that would come when he told his father the truth. "I..." he paused, and cleared his throat again. The action was futile and did nothing to make his voice less hoarse. "I went back for them, but they were already gone. The gendarmes... the gendarmes must have taken them."

Azelma gasped again, this time in disgust. "You idiot!" she cried.

This time Sabian was ready for the swipe, and jumped out of the way of his father's fist. He wasn't fast enough to avoid a hit from his mother, though, and fell against the shabby, moth-eaten wallpaper.

"The gendarmes have the letters!" his mother wailed to his father.

His chest heaving with rage, M. Thénardier glared at his son. "Get out."

"But I-" Sabian tried to protest.

"Get out!" his parents roared together.

Sabian looked around the tiny apartment he shared with his parents, his younger sister and his often-absent younger brother, and realised that other than the inn his parents had owned when he was younger, this was he closest he had ever had to a home.

He looked in his parents' eyes but found no mercy there. He turned, dejected and headed for the door. He could find somewhere to sleep for a few days, perhaps, and then try his luck with them again. He briefly entertained the thought that the gendarmes would show up and arrest them for fraud, show them to the cells and keep them locked up for the rest of their days, but he knew that they would throw him to the wolves before they ever admitted their guilt. M. and Mme. Thénardier turned their backs on their son,

As he went for the door out into the stairwell, Azelma rushed over to him and pressed a slip of paper into his hand.

"The last letter," she said, not unkindly, and Sabian would have hugged her if such a display of affection hadn't brought his parents' ire down on her.

"Thanks," he said, quietly, and slipped out the door.

His family lived on the third floor of a four story building, narrow and crumbling, built in the style that had been popular during the reign of Bonaparte. The stairs were rickety and splintered easily, the wallpaper, patterned with _fleur de lis_, was faded and torn. He stood on the thin landing outside his parents' door and could smell the faint scents of cooking from the second and third floor.

His stomach rumbled, and he thought about going downstairs and begging for some scraps, but he knew what both of the lower tenants thought of his family and was sure they weren't going to help. He looked at the letter Azelma had given him and his heart stopped when he saw the name printed in his sister's halting, scratchy hand.

_M. Marius Pontmercy._

Despite everything that had happened since he'd last seen Marius, despite the throbbing of his cheek, Sabian's heart stopped and his throat grew dry. He looked up, to the floor of the landing above, and for a second all he could hear were Marius' footsteps as he paced back and forth in his loft.

"Marius," Sabian said to himself, as though tasting the name. "Marius."

His heart was beating again, faster now. Faster and faster and faster. His hands were getting sweaty. He was, he realised, nervous. He was never nervous. The sight of _gendarmes_ or an empty wine bottle in his father's hand was cause for fear, certainly, and he knew what it was to be afraid, but he was never nervous.

His fight or flight response was finely tuned in the direction of flight, and so when he was afraid he ran. Now, though, he didn't know what to do. The letter in his hand, begging for alms, was the best shot he had at getting a few francs, enough money to stay alive until his parents forgave him. If they forgave him.

But the letter was addressed to Marius, and Marius rendered Sabian inert.

The sight of the man had been enough to paralyse Sabian, and the thought of having to actually talk to him, let alone beg him for money, was driving him to apoplexy. He heard movement in the apartment behind him, heard his parents bicker in raised voices, and decided that he had to move. Up or down.

The door behind him began to open and he leapt into action, scurrying up the stairs as quickly as his long, skinny legs would carry him. He whirled around in time to see his father exit the apartment with a fresh, unmarked bottle of wine clutched in his fist. Sabian swallowed as he watched the loutish, lice-ridden man that had once been a fixture of a community, descend to the street.

"Hello," he heard someone say behind him.

Once again, he froze, rooted to the spot. He knew that voice, rich and deep and full like chocolate. Marius Pontmercy was standing right behind him. Sabian took a deep breath, but it did nothing at all to calm his breathing or slow his heart.

"What are you doing up here?"

Something in Sabian snapped into life. He spun around and put on his most charming grin and tossed a mock curtsy to Marius. Marius blinked his beautiful blue eyes and beheld the dirty wretch in front of him and Sabian found he couldn't look the man in the eyes.

"M'sieur," he said, and paused when he heard his own rasping voice. "I'm ever so sorry to disturb you, M'sieur."

"Sabian, isn't it?"

_He knows my name_, Sabian thought and his heart thundered in his ears. "Uh," he said, unsure how to go on. "Yes. Yes, I am Sabian. I live downstairs."

"I know," Marius said and instantly seemed to lose interest. His intelligent, sharp eyes, bluer than the bluest sky Sabian had ever seen, clouded over and Sabian knew his mind was on something else. Sabian, who had looked into the man's eyes only briefly, had to look away immediately. As absurd as it was, it broke the boy's heart. "Come in, if you want."

Sabian jumped like he'd been shocked. "M'sieur?"

"Come in," Marius repeated, stepping back into his loft and beckoning absently to Sabian, "if it pleases you."

"Of course it pleases me," Sabian said before he could stop himself and quickly followed Marius inside. It was much like his family's apartment, but there was even less furniture. A single bed, a chair, an old writing desk stuffed with papers below a dusty mirror mounted on a nail in the wall. There was no wallpaper, and there were three windows looking on the street. Sabian's family had only one.

Night was quickly falling over Paris, the boy could see, but to him it felt like the middle of the day, so radiant was Marius to him. Marius crossed to the bed and picked up a book and began to read it, mouthing the words. Sabian was reminded of the man's performance in front of General Lamarque's house earlier in the day and he cleared his suddenly dry throat.

As desperately as he wanted to be in Marius' company, he wanted to flee, find some dark, cold hole and lie there forever. He wanted to be gone from this place and that was the most confusing thing of all.

"M'sieur," Sabian said, doing his best to appear demure and innocent. "I have this for you."

He lifted the letter and made to press it into Marius' other hand. "What is it?" the man said, as if remembering Sabian was there.

"A letter from my sister, sir," Sabian said, hanging his head. "She's not well, M'sieur. She's got a cough, see, and it won't get better."

"It sounds like you've got a cough," Marius said, eying him and then the letter, which he took from Sabian with one graceful move.

To his everlasting shame, Sabian flushed crimson. "My voice," he said.

Marius read the letter over, and Sabian saw comprehension break through the man's casual disinterest. He looked up and examined Sabian, and then went over to the desk. He put the letter down and began to sort through some of the papers on it.

"I can read, you know," Sabian said suddenly.

"Oh?" Marius said, turning back to the boy. Marius frowned. "Were you at General Lamarque's home earlier today?"

"No," Sabian lied. He wasn't sure why.

"I thought I saw someone that looked like you," Marius said, and went back to sorting through his desk.

He saw me, Sabian thought. His heart was pounding louder than thunder or cannon. He could barely think, could barely breathe. Finally, he remembered why he was there. "Please, M'sieur, my sister, sir. She wrote to you, sir, since she can't come to see you herself. She don't want you to get sick, too."

Marius lifted a pile of letters that Sabian recognised immediately. The boy went white as a sheet. Marius compared the letter to one from the pile. Sabian realised he had to distract the man before he discovered the Thénardiers' treachery, and ran across to the mirror. With his forefinger, he scratched a figure in the shape of an 'S' in the dust.

"Look, m'sieur!" he said. "I can write, too."

Quickly, he sketched out an 'A', a 'B', an 'I', another 'A' and an 'N'.

"My name!" Sabian insisted, and grinned proudly. He looked to the book on Marius' desk, at the small pile in the corner nearest the bed. "I can read!"

Without thinking, he snatched the letter from Marius' hand and began to read it aloud:

"Monsieur Marius Pontmercy," it began, "please, I need your help. I am very sick and I am coughing all the time. My parents are very poor and our apartment is very small and we have only one window for sunlight and fresh air and we can't afford a doctor. Please help me, monsieur, I need medicine."

Sabian folded the letter and felt bizarrely proud of himself. He had read! He had written! He had proven himself to be more than a gutter snipe, more than a simple, uneducated urchin. He hoped against hope that Marius would notice.

The man was frowning, though. Sabian realised he was looking at the boy's feet and at his chest. Sabian's blood ran cold when he realised he still had the red ribbon pinned there.

"You _were_ at General Lamarque's house," Marius said. "What happened to your shoes?"

"I lost them," Sabian answered, deciding to tell as much of the truth as he dared. He found that he didn't want to lie to Marius, but he was so used to lying that telling the truth tasted strange in his mouth. "When the _gendarmes_ arrived."

Marius sighed. "Here."

He pressed a single five franc note into Sabian's hand. For the briefest second, their fingers brushed and Sabian thought his heart was going to explode. "M'sieur!" he exclaimed. "Thank you, sir! Thank you so much!"

"It isn't enough for a doctor," Marius said.

"It's enough for shoes," Sabian said before he realised what he was saying.

Marius laughed and it was the most beautiful sound Sabian had ever heard. He wanted it to continue forever, but realised he was already pushing his luck. Thanking the man continually over his shoulder as he left the apartment, a grin a mile wide on his face.

Marius simply went back to reading his book. An encounter that had filled Sabian with emotions he couldn't comprehend and couldn't control had been, for Marius, a matter of an instant, over and done with and just as quickly forgotten.


	3. III - M et Mme philanthrope

**III. M. et Mlle. _philanthrope_**

* * *

Sabian felt as though he was floating on a cloud. He couldn't remember feeling so happy since he'd been a young boy in his parents' inn, doted on and adored by his mother and father both. The five francs he held felt like the key to royal treasury to him and that the note had touched the hands of Marius Pontmercy made it all the more valuable. He didn't care that it was only five frances; to Sabian Thénardier it might have been five thousand francs, or five million.

He rushed down the stairs, towards the lobby. He came up short when he saw his father burst through the door. The man had a wild, manic grin on his face and a gleam in his eye that brought terror to his son.

Sabian pressed himself against the fading wallpaper, hoping to disappear, but Thénardier grabbed his son and smiled in his face. Immediately, with his skilful pickpocket's fingers, Sabian tucked the five franc note into the pocket of his trousers. His breath reeked of alcohol and decay. "They're coming, my boy!" he said, and he whistled a tune. "They're coming!" Grabbing Sabian by the scruff of his collar, he near hoisted the boy up the stairs.

"Who is?" Sabian asked, struggling to get free.

"Monsieur and Mademoiselle _philanthrope_!" M. Thénardier said.

Sabian froze. "One of the letters."

"One of the letters indeed!" his father said. "Now get upstairs. Tell your mother we have guests coming. Put out the fire, won't you? And break a chair!"

"Why?"

M. Thénardier reeled on him and Sabian realised he was about to provoke his father's fury again. "We've got to look poor!"

Sabian had to restrain himself from telling his father, wearing moth-eaten and grimy clothes that were several years out of fashion and in a terrible state of repair, that they already looked poor enough. Instead, he rushed upstairs while his father took a few moments to compose himself.

As he got to the landing leading to his family's apartment, he heard the boards of the landing above creak. He looked up and he saw Marius Pontmercy peering down curiously. Obviously, he'd head M. Thénardier return and had come to investigate what was happening. Suddenly, Sabian was struck through with shame. Marius knew, now, that they were beggars, that they petitioned the wealthy and well-off for spare sous, and Sabian thought that he must be horrified. Suddenly, instead of gold, the five franc note in his pocket felt like lead. Studiously avoiding the handsome student's gaze, Sabian sidled into his family's apartment.

"What are you doing back here?" Mme. Thénardier sneered as he entered.

"Uh," Sabian started, but found that he couldn't bring himself to speak. All he could think about was Marius' pitying gaze, five francs that didn't come from a specific caring but rather from Pontmercy's general regard for the poor, for people he thought more piteous, and therefore lower, than him.

"Well?" his mother asked, her harsh voice cutting through his reverie.

"Father sent me up here," he said. "One of the letters was answered. Someone's coming."

Mme. Thénardier's sneer became a simpering smile in an instant. "Perfect!" she said, and spun around, looking about the small, grimy apartment. "Azelma! Put out the fire!"

Sabian's sprang into action.

"Father wanted me to break a chair," Sabian said. "To make us... look poor." He self-consciously gazed down at his bare, filthy feet. He wondered what Marius would have thought of the sight of them. His throat grew tight, and he realised that, despite the abject poverty he found himself in, Marius always looked and smelled and seemed so _clean_.

Sabian, thinking of Marius' cleanliness and convinced that he himself would never be so clean, suddenly felt as though the filth of his parents had penetrated to his bones. He wanted to weep.

"Yes, yes, of course," Mme. Thénardier said, and began to smear some ash under her doughy cheeks, doing her best to look as filthy and wretched as possible. Sabian put thoughts of Marius out of his mind, for the moment at least, and went over to one of the spindly, scuffed chairs that populated the apartment. He kicked its leg, and only remembered that he wasn't wearing shoes when his toe collided with the wood.

He gave a cry of pain and look down to find his second toe bloodied.

Mme. Thénardier bustled over to him. "What happened?" When she saw the blood, she grinned. "Good!"

At that moment, M. Thénardier burst into the room. "They're almost here!"

"So soon?" Mme. Thénardier said.

Her husband ignored her. He turned to Sabian, and scowled. "You haven't finished yet, boy!"

Sabian turned to the chair that had injured him, and took it in his hands. Suddenly, he was filled with rage. When he picked up the chair and smashed it against the floorboards, he imagined his father's head in the way. He smashed it down, again and again and again until it was just a pile of splinters: he smashed their destitution, their hunger, their piteousness. And when he stopped, when the chair was little more than a pile of kindling, he realised that he hadn't succeeded, that his rage had been impotent and pointless, and that Marius Pontmercy still felt for him only the weakest, shallowest form of love: pity.

It broke his heart and the five francs in his pocket grew heavier and heavier.

His parents hadn't noticed, instead spreading ash and hiding the firewood. His father had directed Azelma to smash out a pane of glass in the window, which she'd done. Her hand had been slashed open and crimson blood ran down her hand.

"Excellent!" her parents crowed when they saw her injury.

Marius fled the room once more, back onto the landing. He nearly ran into Marius Pontmercy, who was standing outside the door. "I heard the glass breaking," the man said. "I came to see if someone was hurt."

Sabian thought the air had been sucked from his lungs. His mouth moved without making sounds and he found himself looking directly into Marius' eyes. He suddenly felt the man's gaze, and though he'd spent so long imagining and fantasising about Marius seeing him, really seeing him, now he felt naked and vulnerable and he hated it. He hated himself. He stuck his hand into his pocket, intent on giving the five franc note back, intent on freeing himself from Marius' pity so that they could be equal, so that he could be loved.

"You're hurt," Marius said, and pointed at Sabian's foot.

"I'm fine," Sabian said without missing a beat. No pity, not now. "I'm _fine_."

M. Thénardier flew from the apartment and passed Sabian without a thought, though he did tip an imaginary cap to Marius. He raced down the stairs.

"We have guests," Sabian said, as though explaining.

Marius surveyed the boy. "Do you."

Sabian knew it wasn't a question. He bowed his head, unable to maintain eye contact any longer. His shame burned his cheeks red. "I have to go."

He was about to turn back into the apartment when he heard his father make a faint cry of greeting. He leant over the rail to peer down to the lobby at the same time Marius did. Their bodies brushed against one another and Sabian felt a thrill tear through him. His throat grew dry and his palms wet and a heat spread from his groin to the rest of his body. The thrill of that touch, brief and mistaken though it was, widened his eyes.

He backed away and in a split second was inside the apartment.

A few minutes passed, during which his mother did her best to arrange the family in a way that made them seem as piteous as possible. Everything she did made Sabian angrier and angrier and he found himself furious at Marius for making him feel this way but he remembered their touch, that one moment that had seemed perfect.

Marius was so beautiful, so handsome, so clean. His voice, his face, the shine of his buttons. It was everything Sabian wanted, everything he wanted to _be_.

The apartment door opened once more, disturbing his reverie. His father walked in with an exaggerated limp, followed by a tall, broad man, obviously a gentleman, with expensive but refined clothes, a clean shaven, weatherbeaten face and curly, greying hair. Trailing behind him was the very image of a fair maiden; pale, blond, dressed in beautiful clothes trimmed with lace. They reeked of respectability, of a certain bourgeois reserve. They thrilled and disgusted Sabian in equal measure. Something about the girl seemed familiar to him.

M. and Mme. Thénardier did their best to charm the man, who looked at them the way Marius had looked at Sabian. Finally, he agreed to provide alms and then he and his daughter left.

M. Thénardier and Sabian followed them out onto the landing to bid them_ au revoir_, and as they left they passed Marius Pontmercy on the stairs. Marius' eyes were drawn to the young woman; he seemed to watch her intently, closely, following every movement. Sabian saw the way he looked at her, felt his gaze upon her, and jealousy coursed through him. There was no pity in that gaze, nothing close to it. There was adoration, there was appreciation of her beauty and her humanity and Sabian knew that to Marius she was perfect. He saw that Marius felt for her, looked at her, the way that Sabian felt for and looked at him.

Sabian's heart broke anew.

When the philanthropist and his daughter reached the lower floor and exited the building, M. Thénardier kissed Sabian on each of his cheeks and spun back into the apartment, leaving his son alone with Marius Pontmercy, who, after standing thunderstruck in the wake of the philanthropist's daughter, had finally reached the landing.

"Who was that?" Marius asked.

Sabian thought that Marius' tone, awestruck and breathless, would hurt him further. Instead, he simply felt numb. "Monsieur and Mademoiselle _philanthrope_," he answered, and he couldn't keep the creeping disgust from his tone.

Marius seemed not to hear it. "I have seen her before."

So have I, Sabian thought to himself, but said nothing. He recognised her face, he knew it! He recognised her. And the man too, for that matter.

"Do you know where she resides?" Marius asked, still not looking at Sabian. His eyes were trained on the place where he'd first seen the girl.

"No," Sabian said, and he was being truthful: any of the letters they'd left might have attracted their attention. Suddenly, he had a thought: "But I can find out!"

Marius turned and looked at Sabian, looked right at him. The boy forgot his anger, his resentment at being pitied so, under the lighted, thrilled gaze of the man he loved so dearly. Sabian couldn't help but grin. "You can? Oh, Sabian, if you do that, I shall give you anything you may want!"

Sabian gave his word, and as a grateful Marius returned up the stairs to his loft, he mouthed to himself the only thing he wanted in the world: _Marius Pontmercy_.


End file.
